I Don’t Smoke The 2013 Jaguar F-Type’s Tires

LOUD, RUDE, GORGEOUS, OFF THE CHARTS, GREAT-BALLS-OF-FIRE-YOUR-MOM-WEARS-ARMY-BOOTS DANG.

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I wasn’t completely paying attention to the F-Type during the past year, despite seeing it around in magazines and being vaguely aware Jaguar was coming out with a new exotic that would wash the taste of the X-Type and other dumbed down, boring wastes of metal out of my mouth.

The F-Type showed up two days ago and it was like a cup of orange coffee. It shoved me over, hit me in the belly. Gave me that delicious, lustful feeling I always want as a car nut. You’re turned on. You’re in awe. You want to sleep with it, and in it.

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The 8-cylinder engine makes that sweet rumbly sound upon startup and takeoff. You get addicted to it despite knowing it’s going to cost you at the pumps.

Love
this
car

Love

It

And now, a little F-Type story.

I was performing at a venue last night, a sweet little bar with nice folks in and outside. I parked the car a few yards from the door in a gooda spot, and of course people gathered now and again to look at it.

Now you tell me if I was mean, ok?

Young-ish guy outside the bar, in a wheelchair, missing both his legs, metal prosthesis visible. Two sleeves of tats, cig in mouth, kind of a tough guy but not feeling sorry for himself in any way. He was all about the car, he knew about them and about the F-Type. I like talking to car guys, and I stopped and bullshitted with him. He was full of liquor and tobacco and I wasn’t, so there was that little bit of “I’m gonna be patient here, costs me nothing to talk, but there is a little time limit.”

He likes Aston-Martin’s DB9. So do I. Et cetera.

We wrap it up and he says, as I go in, “Hey, drive that thing like you stole it, ok?”

I give him the thumbs-up.

I finish for the evening, emerge from the bar and again he says, “Drive that thing like you stole it.”

“Whatchoo mean?”

“Smoke the tires.”

“Well, I don’t really drive it like that on the street. If I want to go fast or smoke tires, it’s the race track because, you know, you don’t want to put people’s lives in danger, nor do you want a ticket for $100,000 plus your left nut.”

I forget how we got on the subject, but he shared with me that he had lost his legs driving a car 150 miles per hour into a tree. He said this as though that was a reason for me to do the bat-out-of-hell thing.

“Smoke the tires. Drive it like you stole it.”

The world is full of such people whether disabled or not. People who have ears but are deaf. I repeated my “Thanks but I don’t really do that.”

“Patch out!” It’s also easy for people to say that because it’s not their tires they’ll ruin.

“Take care, pal.” I shook his hand.

Got into my car, started it up, it’s loud loud. I could see the looks on his face and the surrounding bar boys.

I put it into first and accelerated to about 3 MPH, driving out of the parking space and onto the street, and away, taking about 5 minutes to do it.

As I drove at lawnmower speeds, the laughter got louder and louder from the mob outside the bar.

I don’t know if the man in the wheelchair laughed, too. I hope he did.

Full review on its way.

Love,

Josh Max – Auto Gigolo